Her teeth the night with darkness dies,
She's starr'd with pimples o'er;
Her tongue, like nimble lightning, plies,
And can with thunder roar.
But some Zelinda, while I sing,
Denies my Lyce shines;
And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.
Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lyce makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.
ON THE DEATH OF
MR. ROBERT LEVET[a],
A PRACTISER IN PHYSICK.
Condemn'd to hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil, from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
Well try'd, through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature call'd for aid,
And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow,
His vig'rous remedy display'd
The pow'r of art, without the show.
In mis'ry's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.
No summons, mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain, disdain'd by pride;
The modest wants of ev'ry day
The toil of ev'ry day supply'd.